We All Have a Choice,
by Nostalgian
Summary: Companion piece to "Let Me Hold Your Crown," UK-side, darkish, I guess: When you make a choice, there's a few costs, a couple of things get lost, and bridges you cross, you didn't know you crossed until you crossed them.


All works belong to their respective owners.

**Author's Note:** This is a companion piece to Let Me Hold Your Crown, from Arthur's point of view. The song chosen was Everything You Ever, and it's mostly about the decisions we make, and Arthur's transition from rainy European grouch to blood-thirsty Empire. Hope it's enjoyable, but I'm struggling to write this piece.

The historical accuracy is ALL over the shop, since this is unresearched.

**Names:** In this, I briefly include Alfred referring to Matthew by a private name. Matthew is called Mato, meaning bear (also it sounds like Matthew) in Lakota. I refer to Portugal as Avis, Ireland as Erin, and the Netherlands as Morgens (which is a possible name, as mentioned on Hidekaz' blod) since I favour first names in this story.

I avoided nation names in this piece, oddly enough.

**Songscape: **Everything You Ever, from Dr. Horrible's Sing-a-long-Blog, since this is a songfic.

* * *

><p><em><strong>We all have a choice.<strong>_

* * *

><p><em>Here lies everything<em>

_The world I wanted at my feet_

The New World was tiny, and delicate, fragile even, but nevertheless, his. Arthur swallowed, trying to be quiet, but the sound rattled through his body.

He stared at the ceiling, and the gray, grainy immensity of it. The cornicing was shaped to resemble oak leaves, and was wound the high corners of the room. The heat sat dense and trapped above him. It was an almost demanding colour, dark and sand-textured, and Arthur swallowed again, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

He twisted to look at the boy next to him, curled up like an animal. His posture was terrible, and his face half-muffled by pillows, he was snuffling in his sleep, nose crinkling with unconscious irritation from stray bits of down. Alfred pushed his face into the pillows again, making a series of mumbled squeaks as he tried to get comfortable.

The child could throw a bison through the air without breaking a sweat, and yet, Arthur saw him toss and squirm, legs tucked up under him, and make rabbit noises into his cushion. Arthur reached over gently, and snared his fingers gently into Alfred's hair, and then stopped.

He lay there for impossibly, long minutes – the time sliding over his chest and clogging his lungs and heart up with foreign notions of protection, gentleness – unbidden, his throat burred. Half with tears, and half with ancient tunes. Arthur struggled with the cumbersome drill of his heart, hammering and punching into his ribs, and with a shaky breath rolled up, and settled against the headboard. Slowly, quietly.

With a softness he wasn't yet sure belonged to him, Arthur unfurled Alfred, straightening the boy's spine, and softly cradled Alfred in his lap. Curling himself about the boy, Arthur pressed his forehead against Alfred's. Barely pressed. Only the lightest of pressures, and shut his eyes, lashes barely brushing Alfred's face.

His breath was hard; fast, even. Arthur tried to swallow it, but in the end the long hum of some forgotten tune was the only way to make the vicious breath bearable.

* * *

><p><em>My victory's complete<em>

_So hail to the king_

Arthur kept his arms tight about the tiny, wriggling toddler, his eyes sharp and suspicious, as he glared out of the corner of them at his door. Francis was slapping his palms hard against the wood, shrieking and railing at Arthur;

"Angleterre!" The Bastard said "Ce n'est pas juste de vous."

Francis wanted Alfred, and Alfred's hands eagerly looped under Arthur's strong arms, waggling in the direction of the angry voice of Francis. Couldn't Alfred hear the violence in Francis' voice?

"Open this door!" Francis roared, and there was the smallest sound outside, and Alfred's squirming became more pronounced. "Laissez l'enfant voir son propre frère!" Francis' voice was shaking with rage; he hadn't sounded quite so angered, and powerful since the hundred year war. Francis' voice was rasping and harsh, like sandpaper and gunpowder.

"Mato mato!" Alfred squealed, his voice turning from delight into confused frustration. "Arthur, Arthur – Briton – it's mato!" Alfred twisted about, blue-eyes shining, but his entire face furrowed in unhappy confusion. "It's Mato!"

There was an answering squeak from the other side of the door, and the sound of something with long claws scratching at the door. "Angleterre!" Francis screamed again, and Arthur tucked Alfred further into the knot of his arms, even as Alfred curled his head back to outright howl, like a dog kept away from its master.

A throaty growl rattled by the door, rising with Francis' angry, violent, aggressive noise, and Alfred's thin, unhappy wolfish screech, and the squeaking noise, the hammering of the door in its frame, and the pound of Arthur's heart, and the slam, the snarl, the scrape of nails and beat of fists and the constant tapping on the door from something small, and then the grip of the growl, Francis, loud and angry, and Alfred's heart-broken wailing.

Arthur grabbed Alfred by his hair, and twisted sharply, and Alfred's mouth shut with a clip of his teeth, a gasp choking out between his lips and the blue eyes welled up.

"Don't you understand, you stupid brat?" Arthur shouted, and Francis fell silent, the scraping stopped, and the air thickened angrily. Arthur's green eyes were glittering with fury and fear, as he shook Alfred by his hair. His other hand gently gripping and holding Alfred to him. The other, violent and shaking once more.

Alfred's eyes brimmed and then overflowed with tears, but he kept his teeth clamped down on his little lip, bruising it. Blue-eyes bugging out and staring at Briton. Little body trembling in Arthur's hold.

If Francis came in, he would hurt this naïve child. Arthur's fear felt like it was overwhelming him.

Didn't Alfred hear the rage in Francis' voice?

Was he so oblivious to the atmosphere?

The tear-tracks on Alfred's face were kept fresh and well-worn by the constant shimmer of tears, and Alfred gave a terrified hiccough, as Arthur's fingers loosened from their handle-hold on his hair, instead carding through the locks with a gentleness that belied the earlier violence. Alfred, fingers gripping onto Arthur for balance, shivered and shook, trembled like rabbit in the snow, his tiny body stiff.

* * *

><p><em>(Everything you ever wanted)<em>

_Arise and sing_

Shyly, Alfred brought a feather to Arthur, who was disentangling himself from the sheets of his bed. On a rare occasion, Alfred had not snuggled into Arthur's bed with him. "Mattie gave this to me…" Alfred murmured.

Alfred was confessing to sneaking out whilst Arthur was away to press boundaries against Matthew in a sharp hug; unlike Arthur, Alfred was strangely fond of his brother, perhaps it was because they were twins. No wonder Alfred had offered to call Arthur big brother, as though it was a great gift.

"Mattie?" Arthur took the white feather, and stroked the barred charcoal of it. "Your brother, Matthew, yes. He lives with Francis now."

Arthur politely overlooked the transgression, wordlessly forgiving his colony for his disobediance.

"Yeah." Alfred stood by the bedside, and twisted to look at the wall, watching the dry paint with round, fascinated eyes. Arthur shuffled in the sheets and patted at the foot of the bed.

"Alfie," A rare use of Alfred's shortening. "Come on, sit up."

Alfred (limbs longer than before, spindly and sprouting like a young tree in the forest) hopped up onto the bed, fussing and shuffling about. Watching the golden slip and slide of Alfred's bare feet, and revealed arms and knocking knees, made Arthur reflect on just how fast the child grew.

Alfred ducked his head, and then smiled up at Arthur respectfully. "You've got another cut on your face, big brother."

Alfred's fingers reached out, but stopped in the air, pointing to a spot beneath Arthur's eye. Arthur's own hand gently touched the area, and felt the ragged shape of a clotted, but unhealed wound. It was not large in length, but was a thick, ugly slit.

"Francis." Alfred said, and explained for Arthur. "It's okay," The blue-eyes glittered, and an innocent smile covered over the obvious worry. "I'll get the iodine."

"No, no," Arthur shifted, getting up with a tired jerkiness, as though his limbs flailed about on strings. "It's fine." He grimaced at the thought of the dreaded iodine bottle. Leaning back across his bed, he kissed Alfred on the forehead with the same confusing softness as always.

_Stay safe,_ He begged silently.

* * *

><p><em>So your world's benign<em>

_So you think justice has a voice_

_And we all have a choice_

"Alfred!" Arthur roared, shoving the door of Alfred's room back on its hinges, and in his hidey-hole, Alfred flinched, shrinking into himself. He inched back further under his bed, watching the dusty shoes of his elder brother tap into view. Wide-eyed, he waited until they turned to face the bed.

"Oh no," Alfred breathed, and Arthur crouched down, pupils flared wide with rage. Reaching under the bed, Arthur seized Alfred by his scruff and pulled him out roughly, and to his feet.

Arthur shook Alfred by his arms, and snarled things that only partially resembled words in his face, Alfred twisted away, and a few flecks of spittle snapped across Alfred's face. Alfred squeezed his eyes shut and waited. Finally, there was silence, and Alfred turned huge, owlish blue eyes to look at England, blinking furiously and nervously.

"You crossed the border." Arthur hissed.

"H-he's my b-brother." Alfred managed, and swallowed about the numb lump of his tongue; blue-eyes stained wide with terror at Arthur's palpable rage. Arthur gazed at the cold reflection of his sharp, angular anger in Alfred's eyes, and let go of Alfred roughly.

Alfred was so gentle, fragile and delicate, despite his great strength. Despite the fact Alfred would soon be almost as tall as Arthur. Alfred was just so gentle, and bright; everything Arthur had never been, the last drops of softness drummed out of him under the punch of Roman feet, and Danish ships. Even Alfred, who managed to inspire gentleness in Arthur, had edged back against the wall away from Arthur.

Alfred was too kind and giving; his whole body opened wide for anybody, to come and raze his towns to the ground.

"P-please," Alfred managed, stepping forward, blue-eyes wide and the slightest bones of a smile on his face. "He's my brother, my friend."

"Alfred…" Arthur murmured. "Mathieu is not your friend."

Alfred bit his lip, and there was a brief clutch in his eyes, and then he shut them. "Are you sure?" The naked trust when he opened it startled Arthur, and with a rush, Arthur wrapped his arms around Alfred, who clung back, as Arthur slid to his knees.

"I'm sure." Arthur murmured, and then pressed his head into the crook of Alfred's neck, stray tears managing to impress themselves on Alfred's neck.

_Little one, the world is not kind to nations,_ Arthur tightened his grip on Alfred, and his breath was roughly torn out of him by Alfred's answering cling.

There was one way to keep Alfred safe, however, and with a throttling swallow, Arthur felt his insides snap to attention; he could create a world where nobody would threaten Alfred, who would let the devil himself in for dinner. He had seen someone who nobody could fight against, who had dragged a screaming Arthur from his own family, and had crushed rebellion from Arthur's gullet with a mixture of military and kindness.

An Empire.

Nobody challenged Empires.

Nobody loved Empires either, and yet Alfred was wrapped about Arthur's side like a fragile, delicate animal, warm with trust. Arthur stood up, spine straightening. "Alfred," He snared his fingers in Alfred's blond hair, and ruffled gently. "You and me – we're a team, aren't we?"

"Yeah?" Alfred replied, staring up at Arthur now, and just glad he was no longer yelling.

"So, we'll always be together, right?"

Alfred latched onto Arthur's leg, his body curled about Arthur's hip, and gripped tightly. The lad was growing almost too quickly for Arthur to know what to do. "You're not leaving again, are you?" Alfred asked, voice wide open and exposed with hysterical unhappiness. "You can't go, please!"

Arthur peeled Alfred off his leg, his hands gentle, mindful of his own strength. "I have to," Arthur explained. "Alfred, I have some important business to do."

"Back in your homeland?" Alfred seemed to have stop clinging mentally, but his hands continued to scrabble and scrape, and he took skittish steps toward Arthur.

"No, no," Arthur murmured. "Europe."

* * *

><p><em>Well now your world is mine,<em>

Arthur struck Francis across the face, and laughed at the rush; the restraining grip of Avis, and Morgens on his shoulder is easily shoved away. "Let me have this." He explained, and with a slashing movement wrenched Newfoundland from France's neck, clutching the territory between his fingers.

The two other nations watched with interest as Arthur stepped round Francis, a devilish smirk on his face, as he considered other things he desired. With a hiss of his saber, Arthur stepped forward, and pressed it up against Francis' neck. "I will chase you from The Americas." He purred, and his eyes snapped up to inspect Francis' colonies.

Green eyes fell on the small, shivering colony that was currently clinging to Morgens' foot, curled on the floor. Sweeping forward, and sheathing his blade, Arthur plucked up what he presumed was New France: Mathieu. He looked surprisingly similar to Alfred, and Arthur pulled the boy to his feet, studying him.

"Leave the boy," Morgens muttered, angling himself between Arthur and the colony. "He's done nothing."

Arthur shrugged, "And leave him with Francis?"

"Non!" Francis cried out, struggling with his binds. "Not Mathieu!"

"The child has done you no wrong, Albion."

"Inglaterra is correct." Avis commented, adjusting the newly-claimed Azores on her head. "We cannot leave the colony with Francis – he would raise the child against us."

"I have the boy's brother; if they are similar this one will grow quickly, and grow strong." Arthur eyed Mathieu with interest. "We cannot leave Francis' resources."

"And what would we do with the child?" Morgens countered.

"Let Arthur raise him," Avis shrugged. "He already has a child in the territory in question." Arthur's hands, with confidence moved to pick Mathieu up, but Mathieu squealed, and backed away behind Morgens, murmuring frightened French.

"He cannot be allowed to stay with Francis." Arthur steadily looked Morgens in the eye, before, with a disapproving grunt, Morgens plucked the boy up and dumped the scrambling, struggling bundle of colony into Arthur's arms. Arthur didn't falter once at the sudden weight, and Morgens raised a fine eyebrow, before shrugging and redirecting his attention to Francis and Antonio.

* * *

><p><em>(Everything you ever wanted)<em>

"Let him go." Alfred said, cold, the warmth of trust Arthur usually found in Alfred's voice sucked dry.

Matthew looked awkwardly between Arthur and his brother, and shrank towards Alfred, but Alfred backed away from him. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

Alfred studied Matthew - the swelling on his cheek, dark rings to his eyes, the smudge of gunsmoke on his face – and shook his head. "This isn't what I wanted at all, Arthur."

"I see." Arthur shrugged, and tried to ignore Alfred's face, as Matthew reached out for Alfred again. "I can't let him go Alfred – Francis would see it as weakness and attack us."

"After what you've done?" Matthew asked, voice so very cold and frosty that both Alfred and Arthur looked at him. Venomous blue eyes narrowed and Matthew shoved past Alfred and Arthur, leaving the two of them standing there uncertainly.

"You shouldn't have taken him…" Alfred managed.

"I rescued him." Arthur corrected heavily, but already his head was spinning. Francis would surely move to take India, and after that, Francis would come to steal Matthew back. Francis would take Alfred with him; an eye for two eyes, and a tooth for a smile. "I'll see you later, Alfred; look after your brother."

* * *

><p><em>And I am fine,<em>

Alfred and Matthew had curled together, boundaries pushed tight and long ranges of land pressed against each other. Matthew, exhausted, was sleeping heavily, face worn but open in sleep. Alfred, on the other hand, had buried his head into the mess of Matthew's greasy hair, and was listening to his brother's uneven, unhappy dreams as they made his breathing jump with fear.

Arthur quietly sat on the bedside, and quizzically stared at his new charge; Matthew was sweet, in his own fashion. The same vulnerability in Arthur's side that Alfred had opened up, bled fresh with this new child.

Gently, Arthur reached over to kiss Matthew's forehead and then Alfred's, but Alfred twisted away, rolling into his pillow.

Alfred wasn't sleeping, but they both seemed to sense it would be better if they pretended he was, and so, with a single ruffle to Alfred's hair, Arthur stood up and shut the door behind him. Behind the heavy wood of the door, he swore he heard a single, mournful, and half-choked sob.

And Matthew was sleeping.

It would be better, for now, if Arthur left the two of them to patch up. Besides, Francis had indeed shown interest in India, and, besides which, Antonio's efforts in South America; Arthur had his work more than cut out for him for the sake of protecting his wards.

Alfred couldn't know the cost this was having on Arthur – the stress, the fear, the pain. Bringing one hand up to bite, Arthur let out a single, mournful half-choked sob, unable to hold it back. The years of battle, and the constant economic drain he'd forced into making his navy unbeatable. His navy – of course, his navy; he needed an untouchable navy if he was going to build an empire up as walls for him and his family.

Weakly, he knew he would need to rely on Alfred's people to help bring him to the strength he needed to hold off the unseen demons that paraded at the edges of speculation. Alfred would be unhappy to hear of more taxes, but there was nothing that could be done. Alfred had said they were a team, at any rate, and that – this was what teams did: support and protect each other.

Arthur slid down the wall, and buried his head in his arms, the sobs now wild even as he bit his hand hard enough to bleed. Arthur had stolen Matthew from his father, and now Alfred could not forgive him for it. Arthur wasn't sure he could either – the child had done him no wrong. Arthur was no different from Rome, who had torn him from his own mother, and dragged his beautiful queen into the mud. Arthur was no different.

* * *

><p><em>Now the nightmare's real<em>

_Now the empire is here_

Kali stared up at him, clutching her arm, the thin streak of blood coiling past a dot on her forehead. Her lips curled back and she bared her teeth in a snarl. "My brothers, my sisters…" Arthur unclicked the barrel of his gun, and began slotting bullets in methodically. "You did not say this would happen."

"Oh, didn't I?" Arthur hummed to himself, as he clicked the barrel shut, and inspected the gun's build.

"My brothers used British guns." Kali's body shuddered and she wrapped her nut-brown arms about her thin, emaciated shoulders. "My sisters fought with your weapons." Kali's amber eyes lidded up at him, and Arthur shifted his weight from one hip to the other, and smiled generously at the jewel of a nation.

"You are Indja." Arthur tapped the snout of the gun on Kali's forehead, against the single drop of henna. The blood trickling from her hair line bubbled up again and a thin rope of it encircled the gun.

"I'm… I'm not." Kali whispered weakly, her shoulders shaking in her own grip, and she stared along the gun's length at him.

"Your brothers lie dead on the floor, Indja," Arthur pulled the gun away and reached out to stroke Kali's cheek with the back of a gloved hand. She slapped it away, and the butt of the gun crashed down on her head. "You remain, and I have no intention of leaving either – you must repay me for crowning you the Queen of Indja." Kali spat out a mouthful of blood, and revealed her teeth again, the whites stained with blood on the pale colour of her lips. Arthur reached forward, crouching down to her level, and pressed the gun muzzle under her chin, tipping it unnaturally high. Green eyes reflected in amber. With his other hand, he brushed her straggly hair away from her forehead, and anointed the henna with a dab of blood. "Welcome to the Empire."

"You have killed my brothers," Kali's voice spat at Arthur. "I will kill yours." Arthur laughed, and stroked at India's hair gently, and he couldn't stop laughing. The sound harsh like a jackal howl, and Kali scrambled away, but Arthur simply pushed forward, pinning her to the floor, cradling his gun to her forehead; Kali's blood felt chilled and thin.

She shook so hard, she couldn't feel Arthur shaking against her, like a frightened flag in the wind.

* * *

><p><em>To make you quake with fear<em>

_To make the whole world kneel_

The fear was consuming Arthur from the inside out, until he spent more time shivering in the Tower of London, than with his own people. Fear, self-loathing, and panic. It ate him up with ragged claws, and like a broken man, he returned to Alfred. Again, Alfred was taller, and with a wary puzzlement, Arthur noticed that Alfred was taller than him now.

But things were wrong, horribly wrong. Each minor correction to Alfred's behaviour, which had slid into disarray, was met with stubborn aggression. The sensitive, easily-damaged part of Arthur's body – lodged between his ribs – quivered with each angry spat that rose up between Arthur and Alfred.

The boy was just too damn naïve.

"I am a developing economy! I need free trade," The boy had shouted over a relaxing tea. "Not just trade that can be done with anyone and-"

"They'd skin you alive," Arthur could barely keep his voice even, his panic rising. Surely the brat could see the danger in trying to trade with the other nations. "You're just a boy." Arthur hid his growing fears behind a sip of tea. Don't show your emotions, just calm down and find your feet. "Now, as I was sayin-"

"Arthur, I also need less taxes. It's too much for my economy right now, I'm trying t-"

_And I am trying to keep you safe!_

"Alfred; one of these days, you have to learn to grow the hell up."

Didn't Alfred understand that as soon as Arthur gave Francis even one finger of wriggle room, Francis would make off with both hands between his teeth? Francis could be given no chance to respond, Francis could not be allowed to harm Alfred. India could not. Their enemies were impossibly numerous, and the only answer was for Arthur to rip himself apart fighting for them both. Alfred's place was to provide help. To comfort Arthur's wounded soul between the battles. Even Avis and he had fallen out over this, and the Anglo-Portuguese Alliance was one of his most-valued friendships.

He couldn't treat Alfred any differently from the others, or they would know this silly, precious child was his weakness.

Arthur fought back his shakes. The terror. The mind-crushing, rib-cracking terror. Why couldn't Alfred grow up and see all of this?

* * *

><p><em>Everything you ever wanted<em>

Alfred had thrown the tea into the harbour.

Alfred had left him, turned away, blue-eyes hard, and cruel and, oh Francis. Why hadn't Arthur watched Francis for the signs – Francis was leading Alfred astray. Prussia had taken his everything under his arm and taught it to fire muskets at him. Arthur was left alone.

Alone.

The pain and loss seized up in Arthur's throat, as he smashed his fist in the muddy ground where Alfred had left him. Arthur kneeling before the traitorous, betraying, back-stabbing boy, so short, so tiny and fragile, delicate compared to the child he had raised. He punched his fist down again, the violence and pain of the last century welling up in him.

The rage of Avis, what he had done to Matthew, what he had done to Francis – even Francis did not deserve that, what he had done to India, the massacre of the tribes and forceful pulling of the people into a single nation, one that he had imprisoned, tricked, owned. Everything he had done. It shot up his spine and quaked through his bones. Everything he had ever done for the blue-eyed New World, for the everything he had curled warmly into his side, who had stared at him with trust, who he couldn't have shot no matter how badly he wrenched at himself, who he would have crawled over broken glass for and done anything for and did anything for, such horror, to the nations he had lived and worked along side.

Arthur had been willing to be a monster for Alfred, but now there was no Alfred, only the last remnants of an Empire for Alfred's sake.

There was only one way to escape the self-hatred, and knuckles smeared with his own blood, and the tracking dirt, Arthur forced himself to his feet, and straightened his back. Screamed, heart-broken at the sky, and then brushed away the pain, and let his scream pale into laughter.

Drown. That was the only way to survive.

* * *

><p><em>And I won't feel a thing <em>

Arthur gazed frankly across the faces of his Empire, and drew his lip back threateningly, revealing a bright grin. "Hail to the king," He murmured, brushing a hand across Kali's forehead, thumbed the bridge of Matthew's nose – who, as Arthur had correctly deduced had grown up big, strong, but without confidence – and adjusted the tiny child cradled in his arm.

Fragile, delicate, and tiny, the little southern nation curled into Arthur's coat, its messy brown hair bordering on familiar, and with an uncommon apathy – no room left in his heart for repeated mistakes – Arthur passed the tiny nation to Erin. "Raise Australia as you see fit, name him however you will." Arthur pressed his hand briefly on Erin's thinning hair, and several strands came away; Erin was always so hungry.

And distantly, looking on Kali's gaunt face, hollowed out with anger.

And far away, seeing the glint of rebellion flicker, but remain untouched in Matthew's eyes.

And buried elsewhere, with Erin's hair falling out in his fingertips.

And faces after faces of weakened, angry, hating dominions, and territories and colonies, staring at him frankly, kneeling before him, and hating him secretly (because Empires are never challenged,) he felt nothing.

Everything was gone, lost across the Atlantic (because Empires are never loved, and children tell kind, naïve lies).

* * *

><p><strong>May your quills be ever sharp.<strong>


End file.
